


Burning Through the Sky

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Swap, Fallen Angels, Forgiveness, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pain, Redemption, canon-typical relationship ambiguity, there is some wing breakage but it's not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-19 08:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20206762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Heaven doesn't give up so easily, not when they have more than just Hellfire at their disposal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a hastily-written one that just sort of happened today, so sorry about that. Should update fairly quickly unless I reread anything and decide I hate it enough to rewrite it!

"I don't suppose that anywhere in the nine circles of Hell there’s such a thing as a rubber duck? No?"

Aziraphale smiles coldly with Crowley's face, watching demons scramble to get away from him and his Holy Water bath. This has been easy, much easier than he had imagined. Crowley is better at this sort of thing, so he'll be all right; they can be at the Ritz by teatime.

* * *

Crowley has a lot of fun roaring flames like a dragon in the Hellfire that should have killed Aziraphale, but then it's time to go. If he leaves now, and Aziraphale meets him on time at their usual bench, maybe they can go to the Ritz to celebrate. He hopes the angel has made it. He steps out of the Hellfire with a serene smile, heading for the escalator- and Gabriel barks out an order.

"Now."

Uriel and Sandalphon grab him again, trap him between them with ease, and Crowley feels Gabriel's hand on his back, just between his shoulder blades. If they see his wings, the game is up - he can't  _ change  _ his wings. So he fights, but it's only a matter of seconds before damning black feathers spread, still trying to stay close to his body.

"Well. That's interesting." Gabriel smirks; Crowley can hear it in his voice. Oh, Somebody, he's been caught, and now he and Aziraphale will both be destroyed. "And it only confirms what we ought to do with you, Aziraphale."

Crowley feels a split-second of relief - somehow, they still don't know - before Gabriel's hands grip his wings in a way that's instantly familiar.

Then there's nothing but pain.


	2. Chapter 2

The Archangel Michael miracles him a towel, which is very helpful, because Aziraphale can't work miracles here without giving himself away. He tells the demons to leave Crowley alone in future, and the way they react tells him they will. He heads for the exit, following the trail of Michael's Grace as she does the same. She's in a hurry, it seems, but he isn't. He grins at every demon he passes and they all shrink back in fear. Aziraphale hops back onto the escalator with a spring in his step; he has done it. Crowley is safe.

* * *

Crowley is experiencing some serious deja vu. The pain of his broken wings is excruciating, as is the knowledge of what awaits him; he is standing at the very edge of Heaven, and he knows what comes next.

The Fall, back at the very beginning, was agonising; broken wings stripped bare, twisted bones breaking under pressure, and then the pit of boiling sulphur. Oh, how he does not relish the thought of returning to the pit of boiling sulphur. The important thing, though, the _ only _important thing, is that they still think he’s Aziraphale. The Fall should probably strip away the illusion with the flesh and feathers Crowley is sure will be peeled off of him in the descent. He won’t let that happen - he’s determined, and when Crowley is determined he can do anything.

“What- what are we waiting for, exactly?” He’s certain Aziraphale would ask, and he’s equally certain that the angel would know what they had planned for him at this point. It’s a struggle to get the words out, wings throbbing, but his question is soon answered as Michael arrives to witness his - Aziraphale's - Fall. “Oh. I see.”

“Yes. Well, no sense wasting any more time. Off you go.” Crowley hesitates; any movement will aggravate the pain in his wings and, more importantly, will topple the likeness of Aziraphale off of the precipice and out of Heaven. But Michael reaches for her sword, a deliberately casual movement, and it’s time he was off. Crowley nods once, trying for Aziraphale’s reserved courtesy and probably overshooting into despair. Then he closes his eyes, focuses on his angel, and steps backwards.

* * *

Aziraphale waits on the bench as their agreed meeting time approaches. It’s not like Crowley to be late, but it’s not unheard of for Heaven to drag things out a little. It’s probably fine, Aziraphale tells himself as the anointed hour comes and goes. Crowley is very capable, especially when it comes to deception. He’s probably negotiating Aziraphale a promotion, knowing Crowley. He’s probably just fine. He’s only five minutes late. Only ten minutes.

Aziraphale doesn’t know what he can do to help - not without making a bad situation worse - but if Crowley isn’t here by the time he’s fifteen minutes late, Aziraphale is going to go and get him himself.

* * *

The second Fall is painful, and terrifying, and nauseating, but it’s nothing on the first. Crowley’s broken wings are agony, and he wishes he could tuck them away, but the instinctual urge to fly, to slow his descent and glide down, is too strong to allow it. There’s no burning, though, not this time. There’s no Grace to burn away, God’s love already very far removed from Crowley’s soul. He plummets, and focuses on Aziraphale. On maintaining his shape, his hair, his eyes. He’s still thinking of Aziraphale’s eyes when he hits the pit of boiling sulphur, and for an instant everything is white hot pain.

He sinks under the surface with a hiss of relief, despite the heat; he has survived again, and he has maintained Aziraphale’s form all the while. Aziraphale is safe from Heaven’s wrath, now and forever. Now all he has to do is get back to him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse the random Hastur POV, I just couldn't resist.

It’s Hastur’s turn to watch the Pit; this mostly involves sitting around and skipping the odd rock into it. It’s an easy job, and it’s good for taking out unspent aggression, which is why Hastur has come straight here after the trial. Crowley is untouchable; why should he survive when Ligur, Hastur’s only constant companion, is destroyed? When  _ Crowley  _ destroyed him?

He’s surprised to see something vaguely humanoid drop into the sulphur - that hasn’t happened in millennia - and  _ more  _ surprised when the figure almost immediately surfaces, looking irritated but unharmed. The Pit is hot, hot enough to cause even a demon pain, and the Fall from Heaven reduces most to shivering wrecks. This is not that.

Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, hauls himself to his feet, waist-deep in the boiling sulphur, and glances around for a second to get his bearings. Then he wades to the edge, broken black wings trailing behind him, and hoists himself out with a grunt. His eyes fall upon Hastur and he smiles - actually  _ smiles _ , though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, hello. Terribly sorry to rush off, places to be.” Then the smile drops. The freshly-fallen angel shoves one wing backwards from where it’s hanging awkwardly over his shoulder, then stomps grumpily off in the direction of the exit, feathers trailing on the floor behind him.

Hastur has never been more terrified.

* * *

Aziraphale stands, about to rush back to the main entrance and demand that Heaven return his - well, he supposes he should say his  _ angel _ \- and almost collapses with relief as he spots a familiar figure hurrying along the path. It’s strange to watch himself approach, to observe the tightness in his own expression, but then Crowley spots him and smiles and his entire corporation seems to light up.

“You made it. How was it?” Crowley settles on the bench beside him, and Aziraphale sits too.

“Fine, it was fine. Where were you? I thought I was going to have to come and get-”

“Yeah, sorry about that. You know how Gabriel likes to talk.”

“Ah. Yes. Right, then. Anyone looking?” They swap back, settling into their own forms. Crowley doesn’t seem to have unwound from the tension of executing their plan yet, though, so Aziraphale offers him a chance to laugh. “I asked for a rubber duck!”

“You didn’t?” It’s the same wondrous expression Crowley had worn all those years ago, when Aziraphale had told him he’d given away the sword. Perhaps that’s what tips him off to the undercurrent of pain and misery that had never been apparent, then.

“Crowley, are you certain you’re all right?”

“Hm? Yeah, never better. How do you feel about the Ritz?”

“You  _ know _ how I feel about the Ritz. And do you know, I think they might just have a table open for us.”

“What a miracle,” Crowley drawls, and then freezes. “Er- wait. Did you just do that?”

“No, but I’m about to-”

“Let me.” Crowley snaps his fingers, and Aziraphale shrugs; it doesn’t matter  _ who  _ makes the reservation, he supposes. “Just until you’re caught up on things.”

“Er… all right.” Has he had his miracle privileges revoked? They had been certain it would be Hellfire, but perhaps… perhaps Heaven has been more merciful than he’d anticipated. Perhaps it’s even just a temporary thing. He takes Crowley’s arm - surprised when the demon doesn’t shrug him off - and they set out for the Ritz together.

* * *

Crowley manages to remain calm throughout dinner at the Ritz. He wants Aziraphale to enjoy the meal, because he’s unlikely to enjoy what Crowley has to tell him. At least it’s easy to sit and let Aziraphale’s usual chatter wash over him; the angel is in high spirits, and obviously pleased with himself for bossing around an Archangel on Crowley’s behalf. Crowley sits and listens and laughs in the right places and drinks, but he’s mostly focusing on not showing the pain in his wings. He’ll be fine; just as long as he stays still he can ignore the protests of his broken bones. But eventually, it’s time to go, and as they stroll back to the bookshop he tries to find the words to explain what’s happened to Aziraphale.

He has to know; he has to hear that he has been cast out, that Heaven will no longer welcome him - if they ever really did. But Crowley doesn’t want to upset him any more than he can help, and he also doesn’t want him to feel guilty. The whole point of changing places was that neither of them was supposed to get hurt, and Crowley hasn’t kept up his end of the bargain. But Aziraphale doesn’t need to know that; he just needs to be told the barest facts, and then Crowley can go home. Perhaps a century of sleep might heal his wings.

“Crowley?” They’re walking into the bookshop, and Crowley doesn’t remember the journey at all. “What happened in Heaven?”

“It’s not good news, angel.” Crowley grimaces; perhaps the nickname is insensitive under the circumstances. “When you survived the Hellfire, they sort of took it as confirmation. That you, er… and then, when they saw my wings, that just-”

“They saw your wings?” Aziraphale is almost as pale as Crowley must be, right now. “So they know-?”

“They thought it meant you’d already started to Fall,” Crowley hastens to assure him, “they don’t know about the switch. But Aziraphale- the reason I didn’t want you to use your miracles- they…” He can’t say it. He  _ has  _ to say it. “They think you Fell,” he manages at last, and hopes Aziraphale won’t see right through him.

Aziraphale, of course, does. “You Fell again. You Fell for  _ me _ . Oh, Crowley-”

“It’s not as bad, the second time,” Crowley tells him, and it’s true, isn’t it? “There’s nothing to burn out. Oh, and I said hello to Hastur on the way out, so you’re probably an infamous badass in Hell, too, now.”

“And you’re not hurt?”

“I could use a nap,” Crowley admits. “No permanent damage done, though.” And that’s true, too, isn’t it? His wings will heal.

“Oh. Yes, yes, of course. Er- only… I wondered if you might want to help me show off a little, first. Cause a little trouble.”

“You know I’m always up for trouble,” Crowley begins, but the  _ maybe another time  _ dies in his throat as he notices the steely glee in Aziraphale’s eyes. “What do you have in mind?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna apologise now. Enjoy!

It’s a simple miracle; Aziraphale simply shifts a book from the table to its proper shelf, and waits. Crowley is sprawled across the sofa in the back room, looking very much at home, if slightly paler than usual. Aziraphale can’t see his eyes, thanks to the ever-present sunglasses, but he appreciates Crowley staying to watch the show. The sunglasses may well be necessary, depending on who comes down to find out what’s going on and how angry they get. Belatedly, he realises that perhaps Crowley  _ should  _ leave - but there’s no time, now. Gabriel pops into existence in the shop, looking around wildly until he spots Aziraphale.

“You! How did you do that?” The other archangels pop in behind him, and each of them stares, aghast, as Aziraphale shakes his wings out, perfectly white and unblemished - all the proof he needs that he has not Fallen. Crowley twitches on the sofa, but Aziraphale feels very calm.

“Hello, Gabriel. Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon.” He nods politely to each in turn. “Is there a problem?”

“Your wings. They’re white.”

“Hm? Oh. Yes. They did get a little scorched, but that soon cleared up.”

“That’s impossible. You can’t- how could-?”

“All part of the Ineffable Plan, I imagine.” Aziraphale smiles tightly. “Shall we agree to stay out of one another’s way?”

It’s Michael who recovers first, and she nods.

“You and your demon friend can do as you like.”

“What? No-” Gabriel is aghast, but Michael leans in to speak directly into his ear. Aziraphale can hear them anyway; the archangels have never been very good at whispering.

“Either he or the demon healed and restored his wings, or She did. Either way, I don’t think we should interfere.” The other archangels visibly shrink back at the thought; Uriel turns their face upwards as if they expect to see God Herself preparing to smite them. Sandalphon eyes the reclining demon warily. Gabriel splutters for a few moments, then nods.

“Yes. Yes, fine, we’ll leave you alone. Enjoy your retirement.”

Then they’re gone, and Aziraphale turns to beam at Crowley.

“Well, that’s most satisfactory.”

“Yeah. Risky, but it paid off. Good job.” Crowley heaves himself to his feet and staggers slightly. “I’m gonna head off. I promise not to sleep for too long.”

“Crowley.” He’s just realised what Michael said. “Before you go-”

“Really, angel, I’m tired-”

“Show me your wings.”

Crowley stares at him, his glasses slipping down his nose slightly so that Aziraphale can  _ see  _ that his eyes are dull with pain and what looks suspiciously like a sort of resigned despair.

“Angel-”

“ _ Show me, _ Crowley. Please. Why did Michael say I’d healed?”

The demon’s shoulders slump, and then his wings burst forth. Crowley yelps, stumbling forward, but by the time Aziraphale catches him he’s already biting his lip, keeping silent as his wings twist with gravity. Aziraphale instinctively reaches for them, intending to heal, but his hands falter.

“If I try to heal you, will it make things worse?”

“I don’t know.” Crowley’s voice is clipped and strained, and Aziraphale realises with a jolt that it has been since the demon returned from Heaven. “Holy power, so… possibly. And you know how wings are, they resist everything I can think to try. I’ll be fine. They stop hurting after a few weeks.”

“They broke… in the Fall?” Aziraphale frowns. “Both times?”

“They- yeah. Something like that.” But Crowley’s not looking at him, and Aziraphale knows he’s lying.

“They broke your wings,” he realises. “They broke- they were trying to break  _ my  _ wings.”

“It’s fine. We’re still here.”

“Crowley, it’s  _ not  _ fine. You  _ Fell _ for me. You- oh, Crowley, it must have been awful.”

Crowley doesn’t answer.

* * *

A lot of thoughts rush through Crowley’s mind very quickly.

_ The first time Crowley’s wings break, he knows he deserves it. He’s not sure why asking the question was so bad, but he knows now that it is, that he is bad too. And then his wings are breaking, and he is Falling, and he is burning. _

_ He still remembers the basic principles of healing; he knows that his wings will heal  _ wrong _ if he leaves them as they are. He grits his teeth against the pain and binds them to splints, splints made from the twisted roots that penetrate Hell’s grey walls, and then he turns to his fellow demons. They are bad, he knows, but he is bad too, and he cannot leave them to suffer. Most will not accept his help, suspicious of everyone they meet; some do, and he helps them all he can. _

_ The pain does not subside; the physical anguish of his broken wings, the burning sensation that permeates his body, the grief of all he has lost. Around him, other demons try to distract themselves by tormenting one another. Crowley sits at the edge of the pit, skin stinging from the heat, and turns his face upwards. He placed the stars, once, and now they block his view of Heaven. Still, he looks, strains his eyes in search of some glimpse of Heavenly light, of God, of the love she claimed to bear him. He waits for any sign of forgiveness. None comes. _

Aziraphale is still speaking, telling him it must have been terrible, and Crowley tries to respond, but then one wing shifts slightly and blinding light flashes through his vision. He collapses.

The floor is cool and solid, he has time to think, before the light fades and the world goes black.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more of this I post, the more I realise it's a weird little thing. Still. Enjoy!

Aziraphale is too slow to react as Crowley crumples to the floor; once he’s there, he doesn’t dare touch him in case he hurts him more. Could Crowley simply be so tired that he’s collapsed? Aziraphale doesn’t know. He’s afraid that something is very wrong, that Crowley has done some irreparable damage to himself in trying to protect Aziraphale. He doesn’t want to hurt him - but he knows that if Crowley stays where he is, the way his wings are twisted will cause excruciating pain and potentially cause them to heal wrong. So he snaps his fingers, glad to find the miracle goes through, and Crowley’s body shifts, his wings spread smoothly beneath him even as his face contorts in pain. Aziraphale dares do no more - but then Divine Light whispers across the feathers, and the angel panics.

“No- no, I’m not-! Stop!” Crowley is a _ demon_, he can’t handle Divinity, certainly not directly against his damaged feathers, and Aziraphale is straining to hold his power in but _ something _is playing across Crowley’s wings. As he looks on in horror, a broken black feather falls out. Then another. And another - they drift to the floor and Aziraphale can only look on, certain now that this is not his power. This is not his Grace. Have the archangels decided to have their revenge after all? It has only been minutes since they swore to leave them alone.

Crowley has Fallen, twice now, and the emotional consequences of that don’t bear thinking about - but Aziraphale has no idea what the _ metaphysical _ effects of a second Fall might be. This might not be the archangels at all; this might be Crowley’s soul passing the limit of its durability. This might be _destruction_, and all to save Aziraphale. If it is, it isn’t worth it. Nothing is worth losing Crowley.

Another feather falls, and Aziraphale reaches for the demon’s hand, limp and unresisting. Whatever is happening to Crowley, he doesn’t deserve to be alone. At least Aziraphale can give him that comfort.

* * *

Crowley gradually becomes aware that he is conscious. Therefore, it follows that he is alive. His wings feel like moonlight. That doesn’t make sense, but it’s true. The important thing is that they don’t hurt any more. He wonders if this is what destruction feels like, this painful feeling of _ rightness_, this sense that everything is as it should be. This feeling of being loved.

_ Aziraphale_, he thinks, and strains to remember where the angel is. In his bookshop, no doubt, and safe. Crowley has kept him safe. **_ You have done well, my child_,** he thinks, and then frowns at his own thoughts. That doesn’t make any sense. **_ You are forgiven. _** He doesn’t want to be forgiven. He doesn’t want God’s love, or Her attention, or a place in Her host. He doesn’t want anything from Her, anything forgiveness means. All he needs, he has on Earth, and he has fought so hard to protect it. **_ Your own side. _** He struggles to adjust the pronouns of his own thoughts; _ I_, he should think _ I_. _ My _ own side. He tries; he does. **_ You may have it, _** his thoughts whisper, and then, _ I may have what? _

He realises that he can hear somebody close by, can feel a hand in his hand. He squeezes, instinctively, and finds that he knows the hand. It is Aziraphale’s.

“Crowley? Crowley, are you- please, dear, tell me you’re all right.”

“‘Mfine,” he slurs, and opens his eyes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You collapsed - your wings - somebody did something. They’re… they’re better, but it was Holy Light- it should have killed you-” _ You are forgiven, _ he remembers, and the room spins.

“Angel.” He grips his hand tightly. “Angel, I think-”

“I’ve only ever seen it twice before, and both times-”

“It was _Her_,” they both finish, and Crowley realises that his cheeks are stained with tears.


	6. Chapter 6

Crowley sits up carefully, and Aziraphale gasps. Crowley gasps, too, as he notices the heaps of black feathers on the floor.

“What- I-”

“I think it’s just the ones that were damaged,” Aziraphale tells him, “but that was a lot.”

“So I’m bald now?” Aziraphale shakes his head, struggling to process what he’s seeing. After a few seconds, he snaps his fingers and a mirror appears beside Crowley. The demon turns his head to look, curious. “Oh. They grew back.” He moves a wing, tentative, and stops, stock-still. “What-?”

Crowley’s feathers are as black as night, as they have always been, but when they catch the light Aziraphale sees silver, ethereal silver shining from every barb of every feather. Aziraphale would like to know what’s happened, too; he’s never seen anything like it. It’s almost like a little touch of the divine, nestled into the demon’s wings.

“Angel,” Crowley whispers, and Aziraphale suspects that even he doesn’t know why he’s whispering. “Show me your wings, please.”

Aziraphale doesn’t understand why he wants to see them, but he spreads his wings nonetheless, the same glorious white wings he’d so proudly flaunted in front of the archangels not an hour earlier. He reaches out to smooth a ruffled feather, and hears Crowley’s murmur of surprise at the same time his hand falters. His feathers, too, seem to have silver-white Grace trapped in them. They match; for the first time since the very beginning, before Eden, before the Fall, he and Crowley match. It feels like vindication, validation; they go together, they always have, and now they even _ look _like a matched set.

“Your own side, you may have it- _ angel_-” Crowley’s eyes are damp, and Aziraphale doesn’t understand what he’s murmuring about, but then Crowley turns to him and breathes, “I think I’m forgiven,” and Aziraphale can’t do anything other than gather him into his arms. They sit together, on the floor of the bookshop’s back room, staring into an improbably-placed mirror, and Aziraphale thinks there’s nowhere else he would rather be.

* * *

Crowley doesn’t know what to think when the feeling hits him. It’s so new, and yet so familiar. _ Love._ Not his own, he knows what _ his _ love feels like, after thousands of years of Aziraphale drawing it out of him, but someone else’s love. Not Hers, which he felt so strongly just a few moments ago, and which lingers somewhere in the region of his heart - he remembers how Her love feels, now, and he suspects he will be allowed to keep it. It’s a heady thought. But there is another love, too, wrapping around him, and he realises with a start that what he is feeling now emanates from his angel. He has loved him for so long, and now he can feel Aziraphale’s love in return. He is wrapped in Aziraphale’s arms, in Aziraphale’s love, and he has come through the worst trials he could imagine, and he is _ forgiven_. He could go to a church, now - he feels it, some long-buried instinct - and never even notice he was on consecrated ground. He could go to Heaven, or to Hell, but he won’t.

He is on Earth, on the floor of Aziraphale’s bookshop, and they are on their own side, and there is nowhere Crowley would rather be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks!
> 
> I know Crowley and the idea of God's forgiveness have a strained relationship at best but I just wanted to try it out. Thanks for indulging me!


End file.
